Last Dark Place

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  There was something scary about the gun.

  Blue walked, head down, feeling the weight in his pocket. He had no intention of using it, but he had decided there in the living room of his house as he fired, that he would not throw it away. He walked.

  Where the hell was he walking? He needed a plan, but nothing came, not even the germ of an idea. He was hungry. He had spent three dollars and change for the Big Mac and chicken sandwich special, but he was still hungry.

  It dawned on him slowly as he walked, so slowly that he didn’t recognize it when it came. It was just there. He had walked right past it and then it had caught up with him. He had just taken the gun and run. No thought, just take it and get the hell away.

  He had run because he was scared, the bodies of Easy Dan and Comedy lying there, the cops at the door. A gun would be a good thing to have. He had taken it and run.

  But now Blue had a mission, a meaning in life, something he had to do, a damn good deed. He had someone who needed his help.

  Why hadn’t he recognized it before? He had just done what he had done without thinking about it, but something inside him had made him do it, made him do it for someone else.

  He would have done it for Comedy or Easy Dan but that was different.

  He kept walking and thinking and not noticing the police cruiser that had begun following him.

  The two members of the Twin Dragons inside the Vietnamese restaurant on Argyle were seated in the rear, in a booth, in near darkness. The two young women with them were giggling and finishing green-tea ice cream, which they ate with very small spoons.

  There had been music playing when they came in almost an hour earlier, but the music had stopped now.

  At a booth in front of the same restaurant watching the two Chinese couples were four young men speaking Spanish quietly.

  Across the street in a black car with tinted windows sat four Chinese men with guns in their laps watching the four Puerto Ricans watching the two couples.

  And then five things happened at once.

  The Twin Dragons got out of their car.

  The four Puerto Ricans reached for the guns in their pockets.

  The two young Chinese men in the booth motioned to the young women across from them to get on the floor.

  The door to the kitchen of the restaurant flew open and two Chinese men with automatic weapons stepped out.

  And Abe Lieberman and Mr. Woo, who had been sitting in another booth drinking tea, stood up.

  Woo looked at the Chinese men in the booth, in front of the kitchen, and coming through the door. They froze. Abe looked at the Puerto Ricans, held up his cell phone, and said, “Which one of you is Hernandez?”

  The tallest of the surrounded quartet of Puerto Ricans took a quick breath.

  Lieberman held out his phone and said, “El Perro would like a word with you.”

  11

  “YOU’RE DOING WHAT YOU have to do,” Hugh Morton said after letting O’Neil and Hanrahan into his house in spite of his sister-in-law’s initial arms-folded barring of the door.

  He had known they followed him home from the hospital. He was upset, probably not thinking quite straight, but he had known the two policemen had followed him. Morton was a good cop, twenty years-plus experience. He had been the one doing the following more times then he could remember and the two men in front of him had not been difficult to spot.

  The sister-in-law disappeared as Morton ushered the detectives into a kitchen on the other side of a reasonably spacious living room-dining room. The table was bright blond wood, the chairs matched. The coffee in the Braun machine tucked in a corner of the counter next to the double sink filled the room with the smell of a tinctured berry.

  Morton motioned to the chairs. The two men sat.

  “Coffee?”

  “Yes,” said Hanrahan.

  “Sure,” said O’Neil.

  “Cream?”

  “Yes,” said Hanrahan.

  “Black,” said O’Neil, meeting Morton’s eyes with a very small smile.

  “We’ve got witnesses,” said Hanrahan.

  “To what?” asked Morton, pouring the coffee into yellow mugs with smiling faces on the side of each.

  “You were on North Rockwell a few hours ago,” said Hanrahan.

  “I was on North Rockwell,” said Morton, placing a steaming mug in front of each of them.

  He went back and poured himself one, too.

  “Black, like you,” he said, raising his mug in a toast to O’Neil.

  O’Neil returned the toast.

  “You want a lawyer?” Hanrahan asked.

  “Not yet,” said Morton, sitting. “I was there. Tracked Berg. It wasn’t hard. I read your report, went to the burger place.”

  He shrugged and drank.

  “Old woman saw you,” said O’Neil. “The kid’s grandmother.”

  “Saw me?”

  “Saw you shoot Berg and the other kid,” said O’Neil.

  “They weren’t kids,” said Morton, biting his lower lip. “And she didn’t see me shoot them because I didn’t shoot them.”

  A boy, about five, stepped into the kitchen. He wore a red Chicago Bulls T-shirt with a snorting bull on the front. The boy looked frightened. He was the coffee color of his father but there was a leanness and a doe-eyed look that must have come from his mother.

  “You didn’t come up,” the boy said, moving to his father’s side.

  “Just got here,” Morton said. “These men looked like they needed some coffee.”

  “You policemen?” the boy asked.

  “We are,” said Hanrahan.

  “You got the people who hurt my mom?”

  “Looks that way,” said Hanrahan.

  “Are they dead?”

  “Looks that way,” Hanrahan repeated.

  “Good,” said the boy. “Did you kill them?”

  “No,” said O’Neil, looking at Morton, who hugged his son to his side.

  “Want some coffee?” Morton asked the boy.

  “Huh?”

  “Special treat,” said Morton. “Bring the milk.”

  The boy got a mug and a plastic carton of milk. Morton poured some milk into the cup and added a little coffee and two spoons of sugar. He stirred it and handed it to his son.

  “Hughie, these men are Detectives Hanrahan and O’Neil,” Morton said.

  The boy nodded.

  “You take your coffee up to your room. I’ve got some police business to talk to the detectives about. I’ll be up when we finish.”

  “Aunt Dee says Mom is doing okay,” he said. “Maybe I can see her.”

  “Maybe,” said Morton. “We’ll talk later.”

  Hughie held the mug in both hands as he left the room, careful not to spill.

  “Nice kid,” said Hanrahan.

  “I didn’t kill them,” said Morton. “I went to the house. The car with the monkey dangling from the rearview was parked in front. I looked through the windows. The curtains were thick but I could see people in there.”

  “And you walked in and started shooting, but one of them got away,” said O’Neil.

  “No. I was this close,” Morton said, looking at the doorway to be sure his son wasn’t there and holding his thumb and finger about an inch apart.

  “And?” Hanrahan prompted, working on his coffee.

  “And,” Morton said, “I decided to go see my wife.”

  “Just leave them there?” O’Neil said.

  “I knew where to find them,” said Morton, meeting O’Neil’s eyes. “If I went in and blew them away, I’d lose my wife, my son. They need me. I need them.”

  “And the third one?” asked O’Neil.

  “And the old woman?” asked Hanrahan.

  “Didn’t see them,” said Morton after taking a sip of coffee. “Must have been in another room.”

  “Simple as that?” asked O’Neil.

  “Simple as that,” said Morton. “I knew you were maybe ten, fifteen minutes behind me. I
didn’t want to be there when you showed up.”

  “You left the scene of a crime,” said O’Neil.

  Morton nodded and drank some more coffee.

  “Went straight to the hospital?” asked Hanrahan.

  “Stopped at St. Stephen’s Church,” Morton said. “It didn’t do any good. Five minutes, no more. Then the hospital.”

  “Your piece,” said O’Neil. “Mind if we check it?”

  Morton nodded, reached under his jacket, and handed his weapon across the table. O’Neil took it, examined it, and handed it back.

  “Have a backup?” asked O’Neil.

  “No,” said Morton. “You didn’t find the gun?”

  “Can we have the lab check your hands or do you want that lawyer now?” asked Hanrahan.

  Morton looked at his watch.

  “Let’s make it quick,” he said, getting up. “I’ve got an important dinner meeting.”

  O’Neil and Hanrahan stood.

  “Mind if we ask who this important dinner meeting’s with?” said O’Neil.

  “The mayor,” said Morton, taking the empty mug from O’Neil’s hand.

  Abe was certain that when he got home a few minutes after ten, the Pinchuk sisters would be long gone. He had not even considered the possibility that they would be there, which proved, as Bess often said, that while her husband seemed to be ever prepared for the unexpected in his life as a police officer, he was never prepared for the expected in his personal life.

  Here, before him at his dining room table, sat living proof that Bess was right.

  Everyone called them “the Pinchuk girls” though Rose was seventy-six and Esther seventy-five. They were both widows. They lived together. They wore each other’s clothes and could have passed for twins. The Pinchuk girls were short, looked deceptively frail, wore identical short haircuts for their identical silver hair, and bore the same face as their late mother, which meant they were unblemished and perpetually smiling as if they had a secret and knew how to tolerate even the most outrageous responses the world hurled at them. They were thin, female Jewish Buddhas who sat smiling up at him with large ring-bound books laid out and piled ponderously on each other.

  “Ladies,” Abe said, wanting to take off his shoes and kick them into the front closet, but that would result in the mild but certain disapproval of his wife when the visitors had left. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

  “Listen,” said Esther. “If it can’t be helped, it can’t be helped.”

  “I was preventing a gang war,” Abe said, deciding to keep his jacket on to cover his holster and gun.

  “A gang war?” asked Rose. “Coloreds?”

  “Yes, but not the color you’re thinking of,” said Abe as he sat.

  “Guns?” asked Esther.

  “A plethora,” said Lieberman, reaching for one of the chocolate chip cookies on a plate within reach. “A cornucopia of firearms.”

  “Is he joking, Bess?” asked Rose. “I can’t tell when he’s joking.”

  “I don’t know,” said Bess. “Abe, are you joking?”

  “No.”

  “He’s not joking,” said Bess. “My husband enjoys displaying his vocabulary.”

  “I read a lot,” said Abe, reaching for a second cookie.

  Bess held her hand out and her husband reluctantly dropped the cookie onto her palm.

  “Insomnia,” said Lieberman. “Can’t sleep so I read. Amazing what the mind can retain when you’re so tired you have no idea what you are reading.”

  “Never mind,” said Esther, raising her tiny hands. “We don’t need to hear.”

  “Abraham,” Rose said, a distinct note of excitement in her voice. “We’re ready.”

  “Three days,” said Esther.

  “The big day is in three days,” Rose agreed. “Responses are all in. Catering is all set. Friday night Oneg at the temple is cake, ruggalah, petits fours, decaffeinated coffee, and tea.”

  “And sugar-free cookies,” added Esther.

  “And sugar-free cookies,” agreed Rose.

  Abe looked at Bess, who sat at his side as Esther passed an open book to him.

  “That’s how it will look.”

  “Wonderful,” said Lieberman.

  “And the buffet lunch on Saturday,” Esther said, reaching over to point to a photograph on the next page. “Tuna salad, egg salad, herring, bagels and lox spread, and a nice green salad.”

  “And fruit salad,” said Rose.

  “And cookies,” Esther added.

  Lieberman examined the photographs.

  “You have our gratitude,” Lieberman said.

  “Bimah flowers from Hoisman’s on Skokie Boulevard,” said Rose, turning the page and pointing to a photograph of flowers.

  “It’s perfect,” said Bess.

  “The flowers were paid for by Ida Katzman weeks ago,” said Esther.

  “We know,” said Lieberman.

  “Doesn’t hurt to remind,” said Rose. “Rabbi Wass will mention. You might want to mention, too, when you talk.”

  That left only the bar mitzvah-night dinner, a sore topic with the Pinchuk girls. Maish and Yetta had insisted on catering and paying, which meant it would be kosher style and not kosher. This was fine with Bess and Abe and even with Rabbi Wass, but not with the Pinchuks, who accepted the fact stoically. They would have preferred Feinstein and Brinkoff and they would have preferred the hall at Temple Mir Shavot and not the private dining room of the Jewish War Veterans’ building in Lincolnwood.

  “Boxes of yarmulkes will be inside the shul door both Friday and Saturday,” said Rose.

  “Blue and white, like you wanted,” said Esther.

  “It’s what Barry wanted,” said Lieberman.

  “They look nice,” said Rose tolerantly.

  “Mrs. Lieberman has the ‘thank you’ notes and envelopes,” said Esther, pointing to a white box in front of Bess.

  “And all that remains is for us to give you our sincere thanks and a final check for your tireless efforts,” said Abe.

  The Pinchuk girls smiled.

  “I gave the ladies a check,” said Bess.

  Abe nodded.

  “We heard from sources that Ida Katzman left you a million dollars,” said Rose.

  “Your sources have active imaginations,” said Abe. “And the money was left to Mrs. Lieberman.”

  “I’m sure you will make a generous tzadakeh gift,” said Rose.

  “It will go to those who have need for it,” said Bess.

  “So,” said Rose with a sigh. “I suppose now we fold our books like Arabs and silently steal away.”

  “And the night shall be filled with music,” Lieberman began. “And the cares that infest the day shall fold their tents like Arabs and silently steal away.”

  “Shakespeare?” asked Esther, obviously impressed.

  “Longfellow,” said Lieberman.

  “Insomnia?”

  “Insomnia,” Lieberman confirmed. “A blessing and a curse.”

  “One of God’s mysteries,” said Rose.

  “Thanks again,” said Bess, standing and helping them place their books in the worn leather bag they had brought with them. “You’ll be there for everything?”

  “Would we miss it?” asked Rose.

  “Dinner at the Jewish War Veterans’?” asked Lieberman.

  “We will be in attendance,” said Esther.

  Abe and Bess ushered the Pinchuks to the door and helped them to their car.

  “Rose has to drive,” said Esther. “My night vision is not good. Rose inherited our grandmother Sarah’s vision. Died at ninety-nine, never needed glasses. Me, I got our father’s eyes.”

  “It evens out,” Abe said, closing the door after she was inside.

  And then they were gone.

  “We have anything left in the checking?” he asked Bess as they went back to the house.

  “You get paid Friday,” she said. “We can get a bank loan based on Ida’s will. I checked.”


  “We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” he said as they entered the house and he closed the door. “Kids sleeping?”

  “I’ll check,” she said.

  “Lisa?”

  “She wanted to talk to you. I asked her to wait till tomorrow. Told her you were busy saving the world. You know what she said?”

  “She said, ‘Again.’”

  “That’s exactly what she said,” said Bess, moving to clear the dining room table.

  “And?”

  “She said it’s easier for you to save the world than to save your only daughter,” said Bess. “Was it really a gang war, Avrum?”

  “It was,” he said, taking off his jacket. “A potential gang war. Chinese and Puerto Ricans.”

  He followed Bess into the kitchen.

  “Abe, tell me, are there really Jewish gangs?”

  “There are,” he said. “Jamaican, Hungarian, Russian, Irish, Indonesian, Mexican. We live in a land of unlimited opportunity.”

  “You ate?”

  “I did,” he said. “Vietnamese ribs and noodle soup.”

  “And that sweet coffee?” she asked.

  “It would have been impolite to do anything else,” he said. “And I was with a man who values politeness.”

  Even, thought Lieberman, when he is setting up the fall of people who trust him. He had no intention of telling Bess what had happened. She had no desire to hear it. It would have been a tough tale to tell had she been interested.

  Woo had an informant in the Twin Dragons, an informant who told him about the plan to ambush the Puerto Ricans. Woo did not want a street war, did not want the television stations and newspapers to put Chinese names and faces in front of the public, perhaps even his own name and face. It had happened before and he did not want it to happen again.

  It was not that Woo was a stranger to violence, gang war, and murder. He had risen to his present position largely because he had employed such tools. But having attained, he now wanted to retain and enjoy the privilege, artifacts, and respect of old age.

  Woo had informed Lieberman than Parker Liao in his ambition and lack of conscience might well present to the city a spectacle of such carnage that the minor street brawls of old tongs and those of the Mafia would be forever relegated to ancient and quaint history.

  A battle with a gang of Puerto Ricans led by a madman was not such a necessity. Hence, he had called Lieberman. Parker Liao was definitely a threat and a liability—one that Mr. Woo preferred to deal with later and quietly.